Rigid Airship
by Sat-Isis
Summary: Age of Sail Steam-punk AU of PotC. Set 10 years after the events of AWE. Beckett builds an airship and wants Norrington to command it, but Norrington doesn't want anything to do with Beckett after what happened in the Caribbean.


"I want nothing to do with you," James Norrington growled at the horrifically scarred man in front of him. They were in Alvediston, near James' place of origin, in the Public Rooms of the Crown Inn. James had been sitting down to a few bitter pints, minding his own bloody business, and Lord only knew how Cutler Beckett had managed to find him after ten years.

Cutler cocked his head to the side to hear what Norrington had said, the explosion that had badly burned most of his body had also left him partially deaf. "Now, now. You may yet be interested in what I have to offer," Beckett said as he helped himself to a chair across from the former naval commander and rested his cane between his legs.

James grit his teeth. Here he had been having such a pleasant time spending the rest of his ruined life in obscurity and managing a meager living from his disability pension. "I am taking my leave. I would not recommend following me," Norrington bit out as he motioned for the pot boy, Alex, to bring him his tab.

"I will have what he is having and a pie," Cutler said to the boy as he came up. Alex stared for a time and Old Norrington looked as though he was about to have an apoplexy. He figured he was being insulting to one of his service friends, back when he was a commander, and quickly recovered with, "Best bitters, sir, and bacon with mushroom pie."

"Excellent boy!" Beckett exclaimed as Norrington said, "I will be paying my tab now, Alex." The pot boy hesitated, vacillating between the two men's orders. "Nonsense, boy - Alex was it? Place my order on Norrington's tab, I will be paying today." "No -" Norrington's retort was cut short by Beckett waving his hand at Alex to move along and bring him his bitter.

James slammed his fist on the table, "You can pay for my pints, but you cannot pay for my time. Good day and good bye!" Before he could rise out of his seat Cutler struck him on the knee with his cane and effectively prevented his exit. When he smiled the scar tissue twisted up, "I will let you leave after you have heard my offer. _If_ you still want to, that is."

"You son of a bitch," James hissed out between his teeth and he grasped his abused knee and tried to rub the sting out of it. "Just be glad you can still feel pain there...and I would rather you did not defame my mother, James," Cutler tsked as the smile slackened from his face. "Never call me by my name again, you bastard."

It was amazing to Beckett that Norrington could express such fury with so little sound, although it did stand to reason that he was a little deaf. "Slandering my good lady mother again. Why what has she ever done to you?" Cutler facetiously inquired. "She gave birth to you," Norrington pointed accusingly at him before being interrupted.

The pot boy brought out two pints: One for Old Norrington's friend and one for Old Norrington himself - Alex thought he might need another one, even though he had not finished his first. "Did you want a pie, Sir?" he asked, but Norrington shook his head no and Alex left off to check other patrons at other tables.

"Because of you I had a supernatural submariner octopus man stab me through the belly. I lived, but my wound festered. Because of you I am missing a yard of my intestines, part of my liver, one of my kidneys, and, oh – yes – my gall bladder. Thankfully, the gall bladder is not the source of gall, but of other humors in the body, which allows me to be quite galled at your presence."

"You act as though Mr. Jones never took anything from me. Besides this terrible visage you see before you, scarred and crippled by fire, I am also quite deaf in this ear," Beckett pointed to the hole in his head that used to be an ear, "but most distressing, beyond the loss of significant financial gain and the shattering of my reputation, is the murder of my dear Mr. Mercer."

Beckett pulled a face that looked grotesque after he drank his first bit of bitter, he enjoyed it actually, but his emotions were running high. Norrington did his best not to look at him and instead fondled his older pint, feeling anxious and hoping to last out the day without his bowls cramping up in protest. Once again, he had an itch on his belly that he could not scratch because of the scars on his belly.

"So, James -" "- I told you not to call me by my name -" "- what do you say to returning to a life of active service?" "You damned ass, as if I could. I never understood how you could derive such pleasure from being such a sadistic shite. Leave. Me. Alone." Norrington folded him arms over his chest and glared across the tops of the pints at Beckett.

"Hmm, yes, I understand," Cutler nodded sagely, "Even if you could return to the Navy they would never have you. Luckily for you, I'm not interested in placing you in any naval enterprise I might be engaged in at this time." "I will be damned if I end up as some _clerk_ in your paperwork machinations," James retorted, "or _worse_."

Beckett's eyes misted up a trifle, though Norrington did not see it, and he quickly gained his composure again. "No, you could never replace my dear Mr. Mercer; you have not got the skill set or the temperament. I have a different use for you, James." "So help me God, if you even dare suggest it, I will pour my pint over you, set you alight with my pipe match, and finish the job Mr. Turner started!"

Cutler Beckett started laughing, then wheezing, and finally coughing raggedly into a handkerchief as Norrington stared in bemusement. He had not been joking, he would do it. Trembling in fatigue, Beckett mopped his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. It was not being on fire that would kill a man, it was breathing in his own smoke that would do him in sooner or later.

"Oh, James, you need not worry about that…it does not work anymore…at least, not like it did…no, that is all behind me…" Norrington relaxed, but only slightly; Cutler Beckett still wanted something from him. He finished the last of his nearly empty pint and asked, "What, exactly, is your proposal?" James set his empty pint aside and waited for Beckett to catch his breath.

"Do you want to command again? Feel the salty wind rip at your clothing? Do you want your life to have purpose once more?" "Why are you doing this to me?" "I am doing this for you, James. You were not meant to live a life such as this." "Allow me to remind you that my injuries left me physically inadequate and not mentally inadequate. You do not do anything for anyone save yourself."

"I need you, James." "Well, flattered as I am," Norrington replied sarcastically, "I do not need or want to be needed." Beckett sighed. Negotiations used to go so much smoother and quicker in the past when he had warrants for execution and an administrative assassin for when he did not. He could only hope that Norrington's undiminished mental capacity could be swayed by what he was to show him.

Cutler slid the thick, oilskin envelope across the table towards James. Norrington shied away from it, remembering what had become of him the last time he had accepted such an envelope from this man. "Open it. It does not bite, I can assure you." With a sigh, Norrington was now quite sure the thing did bite, but the sooner he got this over with the sooner he could leave.

There was nothing but blueprints in the envelope and James tried to make sense of them; he was no shipwright, but he recognized various parts of a tall ship grotesquely mashed together with fixtures he did not understand. He flipped the pages back and forth, back and forth. Cutler Beckett waited patiently for James to put it all together, for a sign that he understood the reason for this visit.

Norrington's hands began to tremble as he had finally managed to visualize the craft in total and his astonished awe was confirmed when he flipped to the final page to see an artist's rendering of the ship. The unfortunate child of a tall ship and a balloon, the craft hovered placidly over a meadow while tethered to a dry dock.

"I understand now that you have grand designs, but I am neither a shipwright nor a scientist and I cannot help you build this – not even to hammer a nail." Kicking himself for getting his hopes up for even a moment, Norrington folded the envelope back up and passed it to Beckett. "I do not need you to build it, I need you to command it," Cutler pushed it back with his hand, burned and featureless.

Norrington flinched and dropped the envelope on the table when Beckett's hand, exceptionally soft with scar tissue, touched his. "Impossible," James said, disbelieving in the existence of such a craft, "it is all theoretical." "That is where you are wrong, James. I have built this very craft, an airship, not far from here. Come with me to Beckington Abbey and you shall see it."

Cutler could tell James was getting angry, he had always been stubborn, and truly his rigid airship was something that needed to be seen to be believed. "_If_, mind you, _if_, you had managed to successfully build such a craft, the gossip would have reached me far before you." "Come now, James, as though I would build this in the open? No, I had it built in the barn I had constructed for that very purpose."

"How do you expect me to command an airship? I half expect you to lock me up in one of those abbey towers inspired by one of those torrid gothic scenes." Beckett wheezed, "I would rather you did not make me laugh again, James, I cannot take it. You have been reading too many novels meant for young ladies."

"I do not read young lady's novels and stop calling me by my name!" James defended himself before rounding on Beckett again, "I put it to you again, how do you expect me to command an airship when I am not fit for command of anything?" Cutler thought quietly to himself for a moment. He must use the right words to seduce; to capitalize on Norrington's vulnerability he must make himself vulnerable.

"You know how a ship flies, James, when the wind fills her sails and she cuts into the sea with glorious speed. You know the lines and you know the rudder. You are better than anyone for figuring out how to fly a ship into the air, her keel cutting the clouds with more smoothness and more safety than any sea-bound vessel. There are no limits in the sky, James, not even for you."

Hope and desire rose to meet the carefully constructed revelation of Beckett's own weakness descending on him. Norrington felt his heart beating hot, then cold, sending shivers of enthusiasm through his body and turning his anxious stomach into an anticipatory one. Oh God, he wanted to believe…

"Fate shall need all of your will if this venture is to succeed. This is science and we are learned men who know it for what it is," Beckett tapped his finger atop the envelope, "But the men will think it magic. I shall need a strong hand to guide them and maintain discipline. I want that hand to be yours. After all, we are no strangers to magic, are we James?"

"Your pie, sir," the pot boy had managed to sneak up on them when their attentions had been so insularly focused. Alex slid the hot pie onto the table and plunked down the utensil before leaving with Old Norrington's empty pint. Beckett was miffed at the boy for spoiling the mood until he noticed Norrington was preparing his pipe, pressing his thumb into the tobacco and releasing the peach scent.

Cutler had a greater appreciation for scent and taste after the explosion had robbed him of most of his tactile sensations, he decided to eat and let James ruminate over his offer. Norrington watched Beckett; food and saliva frequently dribbling from a mouth without proper lips. He ceased to feel sorry for himself. Pipe puffing, he gave in saying, "If I find out you have lied to me, I will fucking kill you."


End file.
